|| Inevitable ||

XIII

             "This is hell and we can't leave."

Where am I at the moment?

I am at this very moment, this very second, following Crazypants' father down a winding hallway of turn downed lights and too many doors. I wish I could tell you I didn't hear screams as I walked past some doors or hysterical sobbing when passing others, but that would be lying, and I'm trying to make a habit of not doing that. The things I heard... some of them would chill you to the bone. Most of them would leave you unable to sleep for the rest of your days.

I won't sleep ever again.

Stoic, granite faces stare down at me from within their golden casings, brought to life by paints of oil and the hand strokes of a master. Much to my dismay, I possess little knowledge of art and the art world itself, so I would not know a Picasso from a Rembrandt, or whether something was stolen or not. I guess the truth of how they came to be here would be helpful though, if only to assist me in narrowing down the things my captor is capable of. A torturer, murderer, kidnapper, but a man who steals pieces of priceless art? Who knows. It would be no surprise to me if he did, it strikes me as something he would have in his repertoire. Between stealing people and stealing rare art, there is little difference.

As if reading my mind, Rhyne speaks up, "The works have been collected over the years, beginning with my great-great-grandfather when this house was first built. I should call it a mansion, that is the appropriate name after all, but my father raised me in such a way that I care little for objects of the ostentatious persuasion. Nor do I condone the stealing of such works, which is, unfortunately, how the majority of these masterpieces originally came into our possession. I am assuming that was your question."

He throws a questioning glance over his shoulder, without missing a step in his stride, and I nod in confirmation. I haven't said a word since we left the hospital-esque room located in the bowels of this disgusting place. If only I had a match, I would burn it to the ground and take all the wailing voices down with me.

"As I was saying, I have little need for luxury items nor the need to procure things I do not have. My sons however..." he trails off, "all they seem to want to do is touch things that don't belong to them. Shiny things just out of their reach." Though only a trace, I catch the small bite to his words; the muted bitterness in his voice.

We return to silence. If he had expected me to respond, then he would be disappointed to find I hadn't. I simply didn't feel the need to. So at the pace we had before, we pass down the hallway, at a speed somewhere between jogging and brisk walking. The lights make my eyes struggle to focus and stay steady - it's the dimness that plays with them.

Reluctantly, for having enjoyed the silence for once in a long while, I put forth a question. "Why are all the lights faded? Is your son afraid of the light?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's because he spends most of his time moving between the light of the house up here and the dark, hellish pit that you've been calling home down there." He flicks a finger towards the floor. "Dimmed lights help to ease the transition, even more so when he comes out of the labyrinth."

My skin crawls just thinking of that place.

Rhyne continues, "And I know I refer to him as my son, but you should refrain from it. If you do end up back in his possession once more, then you referencing him as my son might cause some problems. He's very sensitive."

A sensitive killer, well what do you know.

"Daddy issues?"

He chuckles. "Something like that. But there's no need to worry, because you're not going back to him. You are coming with me. We just need to clean you up first."